The Dedication is to the Graciousness of the Almighty Creator who blessed us with so many blesses like the Eternal Maternity and the Souls sharing and caring for the salvation of all the beings
Ethica (a child family member of us) left us, on 30.06.2011, suffering with meningitis. Ma was injured on 19.03.2009 (12:30-1:30 pm), with something blunt, on her face (as the spots can be located in the photo even after 10 days of her miraculous recovery from that fatal injury) ‘through faltering while shopping’ at Kallyanpur Natun bazar, Dhaka; and consequentially, becoming weaker, left us on 11.07.2011 THIS BLOG IS POSTED TO COMMEMORATE THEM AND MANY OTHERS LEAVING THIS EARTH IN AN UNNATURAL/UNEXPECTED/UNTIMELY MANNER.
Other parts, including the illustrative Mandala-art-works, may be found at http://shuvogrontho.blog.com AND at http://shuvogronthona.blog.com
Prelude of the presenter and copyright owner
He came and gave some of the art-works for preserving and serving to the extent possible. He spoke, as simple like anyone, about some of the inclinations about those art-labours, and about the dedication line. Close to those inclinations the preparations were done to serve them in a frame before you. (He is S.A.K.M. Shamsul Hauque, the author of the following literary-art works). And the way all these grew, you knew too, as that’s nothing new to be known by few.
May this bilingual presentation bridge the positive souls and minds, of different landscapes of the very same earth, that find anywhere in the life-flow the promises and ties to grow and let others grow.
The Parabola and The Mundane Songs were inclined to be spread through the book like parts of the main canvas. and The Monadics, Uni-Meditation, to be in booklet form. He revived some of the Drvidian drawings of collective-meditation or Mandala-chitra (contained in Uni-Meditation) and requested all to search for the others, samples of that collection were also inclined to be presented in booklets. There are episodes or parts in Bangla which were kept as it were for the sake of serving and preserving the art-works in their original form. All the art works of this Art-collection have been served in the original communicative languages of their formation and none of them are translated or transformed from themselves or from any other art-works so far it is known to the original Art-labourer/writer and to the presenter of this collection. So, to taste all the art-works of this book, the readers have to possess adequate fluency in both Bangla and English or may require to take assistance of authentic literary-translators, until the writer himself has translated them. Concerning aesthetic value of these art-labours, we like to quote from one of the statements of the Art-labourer/writer of this book– “Art-works are but the spectrum of the reality of the distinguish time-space-force playing through the prism of the Art-labourer/writer. So Art-labourer/writer deserves very minimum of the appreciations or criticisms for the art-work, though the labour and/or care for the art-labour or creativity is not beyond appreciations or criticisms. In fact it’s merely a way of sharing, like that of a farmer sharing his/her labour of producing grains for others as well.” All the literary and other types of art-labours came from one person whose intended name-sign letters are printed as Shv. He thinks that names are but merely the way of indication of a being, so he preferred the art-labours to be known in that way. His fingerprints are printed in the book for the sake of preventing the art-labours from any type of illegal or misrepresented claim or use. Purchasing this collection, you gain only the right to collect and taste the art-labours as they are. This gives you no right of reproduction of any kind other than for academic and humanitarian purposes. Persons interested for any other types of use or reproduction are requested to strictly comply with the Copyrights Laws and are advised to contact with the copyright-holder at the specified contact.
In relation to the lots of spelling and grammatical errors, more specifically in The Parabolas, we apologize and assure you that very soon there will be a comparatively error-free version for your collection. And here we like to recall the theorems “In this world full of errors nothing but the Creator alone is above the limitations of errors” and that, “NIHIL SIMUL INVENTUM EST ET PERFECTUM”.
Anyway, this collection is presented for the consideration, of the minds who remind and keep in mind, that the alternative to reading and writing is to read and write. O yes, one more personal message for all concerned – probably one international law requiring any film or document or drawing. concerning the persons or beliefs of reverence to any community, to be approved by the proper authority of that community, would suffice to close the door of hell that is causing many losses through conflicts arising out of religious or other types of beliefs.
The contents of this blog was printed in February, 2008 and has been placed online since then. Those earlier versions can be found at http://shuvogrontho.informe.com
As to any sort of interest including those of re-publication or for the purpose of collecting the Bangla (Bengali) parts or for collecting the drawings on joint-meditation, you are cordially requested to please contact at -
firstname.lastname@example.org – Short messages/e-mails up to 40 characters only.
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THE BOOK STARTS WITH
THIS VERSE FROM THE HOLY Al-Qur’an
“Say: Allah is the One and Only everywhere; Allah, the Eternal, the Absolute; ………” Al-Qur’an, 112.001-2 [Al-Ikhlas (Sincerity)]
Parabola- 1. The sun sets to set away – it’s the way days give way to the nights, it’s the way always all through the ways that the darks mingle up with the lights. The lonely kite on its end-day flight is searching for – a search for something to grip either-or. See the trees, see the clouds, sees the sky and sees the boy without toy and whose eyes rise like ever high. Sees the boy, and he sees the trees and the clouds, the flights of the kites and the sky that takes so high to wash off the pains of gains of a lonely sigh of the fatherless child growing up with his mother’s care, though he himself is not much shared by others, but by his mother, he learns to share. Running here and there the child went not wild though he went to wilds that harness the harshness of life into a light so soft and mild. From the wild, the tiny child learns too how to wash off the mundane pains and the lonely sighs. The tiny child’s mind and eyes browse through the colours of life and through the skies, the trees and clouds and the colours of the sun do the things that otherwise would have been never done. The trees and clouds, sun-rays and the skies tell him an endless tale of life free from the undue mundane lies. The green leaves, hasty clouds and the playing sunrays all over the sky, binds up the tiny mind and mother-earth with the unseen forever-tie. The tiny mind gets the best ways to find the life as life in a time and space that seems to him not so kind. The sun sets away far a way to bear in mind – the tiny boy and the praising calmness of his sight that the sun leaves behind. The mundane charm of the warmth of a calm working Mom at the end of the day when the sunrays begin to blur, comes to her the time to pray for some from an endless sum of the eternal some. Mom, O! Mom, tired of works, but ever so calm, Mom, O! Mom, singing to her kids the holy verses and some of the psalms. Mom! a Mom, likened by the kids like the moonlit nights and the stars that blur off with the firsts of daylights. Mom, the Mom, the heavenly grace that the kids brought with them from the heaven, the grace without which the life could not be thought. Mom, a Mom, who sums up some and many of the some of life-sums. Mom, the Mom, tired of works but even then too calm. Mom, the Mom, who breeds the creed, feeds and leads them to the holy some. Mom, the Mom, breeds the kids – so need to feed them up – so works so long. Mom, the Mom, lead the creeds, seed them up, to sing the life’s lovely song. Mom, the Mom, the working Mom, the warmth of love and the kids’ innocence-charms at the end of the day give her the power to forgive and to give the best mundane things to pray to have in the life all the ways. Mom, the Mom, the working Mom, tired but calm at the end of a workful day, does not sway anyway to lead her kids in the moves through the life’s days of the busy ways.
Mom, the Mom, now old and aged and caged in two tiny rooms, waits for the breeze to bridge the memories’ chime that faded with time. Faded ? Or graded with the waves that pave the phases of faces in mundane graces ? The Mom’s stone-faced face graces the traces of mundane graces. “Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The eternal face, Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The Creator’s best mundane grace. Mom, O! Mom, O! the Mom! Closing the eyes, the face I can see. Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! Creator’s best gift only for me.” The children-rhyme with the best chime of time that belongs to none but all who can feel and still can hear the childhood call. The children’s rhymes with sublime-chimes’ wave through times -“Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The eternal face, Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The Creator’s best mundane grace. Mom, O! Mom, O! the Mom! Closing the eyes, the face can see all. Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! Creator’s best gift for us all.”
The sun sets to set away – it’s the way days give way to the nights, it’s the way always all through the ways that the darks mingle up with the lights. The lonely kite on its end-day flight is searching for – a search for something to grip either-or. See the trees, see the clouds, sees the sky and sees the boy whose eyes rise and live ever high. Rise the eyes through the skies to see beyond and within – the shall, will, are, is, am and been.
“……..Fear Allah, and hearken not to the unbelievers and the hypocrites; verily Allah is full of knowledge and wisdom. But follow that which comes to you by inspiration from your Creator: because Allah is well-acquainted with all that you do…..” Sura Al Ahzab or The Confedarates , The Holy Al-Qur’an
Sky, O Sky , O holy Sky , tell to all the root-cause of all the pains and sighs that comes but was not seen by the eyes of the child who was mild with the love of the mother-soul of the eternal goal to breed the seed of the creed to a holy goal of sharing and caring for all as a whole, in spite of the brutal facts and acts she had to face through out the life and the toll she had to pay in many ways of the nights and days of the darks that spark to jerk and shake not to remake but to break the real-form and to deform the real values and norms of the creed to proceed to the positive goal which confirms that the creed as a whole is but one to breed the seeds bound by the needs crust that must be broken for the seed to be free and to become the tree of blooming-spree to grow and flow the flowers of growers who are the pure souls of the best of the mundane-goals that don’t want to fight but work for light of the souls to work through the creative goals and to partake in the life that the Holy Soul wanted to make where nobody take more than that they may make out of work which don’t spark or jerk the pure souls neither shake to deform the pure souls’ real form to turn into an evil or a sear soul deviated from the goal that was implanted by the Holy Soul within the pure souls to reach the goals of the fusion of the creation that never ends but may bend to mend the wounds of the rounds of bounds of the negative force that try to endorse the evil trends by the bends of the sparks and jerks to shake not to remake but to break the real-form and to deform the real values and norms of the creed to proceed to the positive goal that was implanted within the pure souls.
Sky, O Sky, O holy Sky, tell to all the root-cause of all the pains and sighs that comes out of the causes that see not the eyes of the child who was mild with the love of the mother-soul of the eternal goal to breed the seed of the creed to a holy goal of sharing and caring for all as a whole. Sky, O Sky, O holy Sky, tell the pure souls of goals not to sigh or cry but to unite through out the sites of seen and unseen lights and to try to locate and placate the broken souls to not allow any more sear-souls to derail from the real humane-mundane-goals. Sky, O Sky, O holy Sky, tell the pure souls of goals not to sigh or cry but to unite through out the sights and sites and to try to ignite the holy lights of the holy days and nights within the evil souls derailed from the real mundane- humane-goals.
“I hear this morning making a call - We salute the dignified way to be united to rise, to preserve and to be just like the truth that never fall. Like ever, the nation is one and together, WE ALL.”
- Princess Justicia and her countrymen.
The calmness of the palms of the Mother who sought them into being and brought them up in the rings of things and beings to grow and let others grow as human beings working to trace the grace for the race of the races and thereby to place the lights of the sights that were endowed by the One who has ordained to bow before none but only before that One who has created and seated the things into being and had formed the rings of the things and beings that together forms the universe being and becoming through and by the things and beings waiting for the finest of the parabola rings that might free the things and beings from the pains of the chains that give not the gains to the forms nor develop the norms of the forms to a higher phase of the cosmic nights and days mingled with the rays of the darks and lights that may or may not be seen by all the sights of the lights and darks to receive and perceive the lights and darks that spark through and to the darkest sparks of the darks when they can not be regained to do the due that they were ordained to be done by the holiest One who is the none someone and the One who is many in One who created everyone and every one of the things forming the rings of the things and beings being and becoming now and then every when since the eve of the time when was formed the first of the chimes of the sublimes of the existence and non-existence that were destined for the earliest forms of the norms that could make the storms of the things and beings form the non-being to the rings of the things and beings and then may turn again to the chain of norms that deform the forms to reform or not to form in those forms following the same norms that were normed within the earliest norm of the forms to reform or to deform those unable to reform them out of the darkest sparks they are carrying in and thereby carrying in the sparks into the rings of the beings and things.
Mother who shared and taught to share with all of the races of the holy creeds of the holy seed every bit of the graces for the races to preserve the seeds of the creeds passing through the chains of the needs that are but part of the norms of the forms being and becoming to and from the forms and norms that they are made of or for the norms and forms of the storms of the cosmic flow that grows and flows through and to the high and lows of the sky where nothing is high or low and neither slow but to shape their being into becoming to bring in the ever most perfect ring of the timely chime of sblime that they use to sing since the eve of the time they were into the world of the things and beings and which were ordained and were coded for the doors of the source-codes of the holiest codes to form the best of the norms to form and to reform the forms and norms whenever they may have been deformed by the darkests of the sparks that bites and hurts the other forms or norms due to their inborn defect of the norms to form themselves for reaching the goals by playing the roles that they were ordained to play since the first ray before the rounds of sounds could be found in the womb of time that made the first of its chimes to load the source-codes that are ordained by the One who is for all again for none who deforms the norms of the forms or norms that were formed and were set as the source-code of the core of mores and force before the first storm of the beings to form the rings of things and beings to bring in the seeds to breed the creed of the being with the most proper pace to grow and let others grow and flow through the stream of the things and beings that are becoming for the coming times to pass through and to reach up to the goals they are destined as forms or to be deformed by the forces of the deformed norms who force other to be deformed and to spark out their inborne forces through the courses of mal-forces that were not designed in the discourses of the source-codes of the norms to form and to reform the things and beings to develop themselves and all to a newer phase to face the newer plane of becoming to be a part of the coming time to remain together even in that plane and to proceed more to a newer time and to ensure the eternal knot of the dots and thoughts and spots of time that to be passed by them and to reach the newer plane of the sublime passing through the blooming time that is also being and becoming now and then to and from many when of the time raining the gains to get rid of the undue chains and pains that deforms the norms and forms of all the forms or norms existing in the world of the beings or non-beings that are also part of the rings of things and beings that came into being since the eve of the time and are developing to and from the newer phases of the pace of the race of the creeds to preserve to grow and flow the seeds and to breed the seeds of creeds to trace and face the needs to grow and flow through the courses of the time and to carry the source-codes’ chimes to the newer phase of sublime and forms that bring out and preserve the forms and norms to grow and flow and to follow the destined chain of the source-codes to bring in the best of the things and beings out of their forms and to preserve and bear in the norms that were ordained for their creed to breed and seed the creed and, to the newer phase, to sow and grow and flow and to contain the seeds to a newer plane of sublime and thereby to maintain the chain of being and becoming of the things to ensure that the best of the things are preserved and grown up to the next cosmic-plane to ensure the creative chain of the things of being and becoming as per the earliest of the ordained source-codes and to maintain pace as per the newer cosmic-planes to sustain and contain the gains through the pains and chains as may be found in the nature of the Mother mundane.
“Naibā stree Nā pumaneshnā choibaŷong nopunshākh
Jod Jochchhorirmadolte tēn tēn sā rakhsnyatē.” – Shetashwatar Upanishad, 5/10
[And this spirit of life is of neither sex, nor is either or other sex,
Due to the works, having distinguished figures, gains the gains and pains therewith.]
The Conch-shell rang the bell to tell the tale of millions years of tales that tell about gains of love and pains of fears. The Conch-shell spheres the spirals in and out but not to bend the spiral that rounds in many but to be one at the end. Conch-shell ! Tell the tales of the brightest way to the slightest ray to carry in the rays that rise the way that for ever been in the waves and the dots that the sights seldom slight out through the flights of lights. Conch-shell ! Tell the tale of millions mundane-years after years of love, gains and pains bound by the ropes of hopes, and torn by the fierce spears of fears and tears. Conch-shell ! spiral in and out but never bend but mend the millions rounds of bounds to be one at the end.
Conch-shell, tell the tale of the bluest sky – the sea of lights flying high, the light-sea that the eyes never see though they too fly in that sky which is azurite in spite of its own belonging-less-ness. The sky that reminds the “I” about the ways the things came into beings out of nothingness. The sky that plays the rays to play the plays of the conch-shell’s many-one ring that says the ways how the first-most things came into being. Conch-shell, tell the tales of seas, rivers and streams that stream in and out of all in their mundane streams of dreams that dream to be in the dreams of the sublime light’s streams to bright up the flights of the highest sights.
Conch-shell – the tale that’s forever to tell. Not so bright and not so dim. Nor like stream or a dream. Not so loud nor so low, but enough to flow for ever to grow on the window-panes or in the dens with the senses of the thinnest lenses of hence and thence. Not so low nor so high, but enough to fly in an endless sky of beings to bring in the rings that spiral in and out but never bend to mend many ways’ round that to be found as one at the end. Conch-shell, tell the tale that’s yet to tell – the tale that’s too old again so new, the tale that tells of the things that all do to tell the tales that are in them, us and you.
Conch-shell, tell the tale of the greenest leaves that live through the ages of beliefs that relieve none yet do live and believe in the beliefs that leave none and relieve all to relive. Tell the tales that forever tell the sweetest chimes of the times that make the times’ timeless rhymes in sublimes. Tell the tale that never fell in any mundane facts or dreams, but flows in all like a water-fall, river or stream. Tell the tale that tells the tales of the tales that wave low and high like the sea or the sky, or, like the sky or the sea pave the waves and dots of the brightest spots of the sky’s flights all through the sea that very few may see. Conch-shell, tell the tale that tells the tales of the ways we may and should do the things that are yet to do, tale that tells the tale of being and becoming of them, us and you. Tell the tales to bring the things to the beings’ rings that spiral within and without in and out but never bend or mend the many-way-round that’s to be found to be but one at an endless end to which all tends to bend.
Conch-shell, tell the tale that never fell, tell them the Conch-shell-tale that’s for all for ever to tell.
“justa pari premitur veluti cum pondere libra,
Prona, nec hac plus parte sedet, nec surgit ab illa.” Tibullus, iv., 41
[As a just balance pressed with equal weight, neither dips nor rises on either sides.]
Tiny mirrors of shiny mirrors on the hall, shiny mirrors of tiny mirrors make the call, thinking a bout about the forces that recourse the courses to bring the chain of the gains freeing from the pains of coils of toils in a life mundane. Linking the bout about the forces abound that in the days passes off through the masses of bright sunrays thinking about to make use of many of them linking round the doors of force in a different name. Names differ but so far the force do come, some when less but some when more than the sum, somewhere less and somewhere more than the sum of the some that came ago, some come to go, some yet to come to do the sum in the way done by all and not by the some. Tiny mirrors, shiny mirrors on the hall, shiny mirrors, tiny mirrors, make the call -
“Silver night in the sightless sight
Of the crowds that proud not right.
Silent crowd once think aloud in the days
That seldom pays the wage of the age to work through life-ways.”
When the chaste Aria gave to Paetus the reeking sword she had drawn from her breast, “Believe me !” she said, “Pactius, the wound I have and made hurts not, but it is the wound thou will make that hurts me.” - Martial, i . 14.
“Believe it’s the time to live not to leave!” thought he. But he could see the fearful tears that spear through her eyes. The sighs in her breast, he could taste, so he haste to say that he never wanted to say. “Nay!” He blinks and thinks not to look to her eyes, the eyes, where, now the high clouds sigh. He tries. He tries and lies – “Believe! It’s the time to leave! So, you know, I’ve to go.” He has to go, and he goes. He went and goes. Grows the crowds and the clouds flow high in the sky. The crowds to go; the clouds too have to go. The clouds flow – fast and slow – in the mundane skies high and low. The crowds do flow. High in the sky the clouds fly. The clouds fly in their eyes. Eyes that may cry and dry again to cry like a dove for her love. The dove that sighs but shies to cry. The dove that has to leave her love but cannot fly, cannot fly due to the stoned-wings as her mind screams as if in the bad-dreams. In the bad-dreams as if she screams as she has to go, though she knows not where she is going to go. “Believe! It’s the time to live! Not to leave!” thought she. But she could see the fearful tears that spear through his mind. She looks behind in the minds, and she finds love and loves only – only loves – like the doves, bathing in the rains of sunrays of the mundane days. Now she prays to the God and wishes that he says – “Never shall we leave the other. Rather together shall we love each other, we shall love, O! My dove, we shall love all the ways. Believe! I did not mean to say ‘leave’ rather I said that, it’s the time to live.” But like the unseen crudest lot, he says not as she thought. He says in such other way that she found him never so. “See! It’s me saying that I have to go.”Then he goes. He goes in the flows that people make to partake.
“Nulla placida quies est, nisi quam ratio composuit.”- Seneca, Epist., 56
[There is no tranquility but that which reason confers.]
The city crowds that shake all the times and paves the waves of a moving lake. He too takes a part in that lake – the dot therein in their time yet to make the lakes that shake all the times all through the way to reach the proper-most way. The dots reach the dots though the ways may sway all the ways and that they won’t ever say. Or may be things differ far in the other way – the ways always are but fine and on and in the line, may be that, not the ways but the dots sway. The dots bring in and the dots take far the dots from time-spaces where they are. The dots love dots and the dots do hate. The dots knock dots to open the Gate. Some dots came fast and some dots were late to face the fate. Some dots give in and some dots do get. Some dots dot the lots and some sum and freight the fate. Some dots wait, bate and get the dots where the dots often met. Some dots spot dots where the dots made the Net. Some dots ruin though some other dots may win. Some dots win and leave the spots so that other dots too can win. Some dots win themselves and let others too win. Some other dots know the dots to bet to get to the dawns’ golden plate shining over the graphite slate of a fading dark. One Joan-de-Arc or any untraced silent spark of the pains cause in dots’ minds silent rains. These rains live not so long along the way the pains may have lived. Many dots may or may not live for a long along a long way away to live beliefs amongst lives believed. Many dots may or may not live for a long along a long way away from the lives believed wherein the lives relieve to relive and to be relieved. Even then many dots may or may not leave the spots far along a long long way far away to belong for a way among lives yet to be lived. The beliefs live in love; love lives.
“Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae;” – Virgil, Ænid, iv. 23
[Some footsteps there are still of my old flame.]
In the lots, lots of lots live in the finest dots. Dots that might take a flight above other dots may change the lots. Dots that bear in lights shine up bright to make difference between the wrongs and rights. Dots give lights – shine bright and some dots try take away from dots the inborn sights. Dots do share the dots to care. Dots do dare than what they are. Dots do care more than what they share. Dots bring, string and sing the chimes of the rise and fall. The dots make their loveliest call. Dots bring love for them and for all. Dots say ‘They’, ‘you’, ‘we’ or ‘I’. Dots say – “Stay more!”. Dots say – “Good bye!”. The dots bear in from the dots the unborn dots of thoughts and the dolly holy child. Some wild dots get crazy, with the dots that have grown so mild. The dots go right the much they might; even then some dots do a lot of wrongs. Though some dots fear to hear to the chimes of times, the dots hear to the dots cheerful timely mundane songs. Dots break the lots of the dots, though some do save, with the lots of those who are wise and brave. Some dots save the dots’ by forming dots’-wave when some hot dots send to war, some other dots without lot, to a country far and far. There the dots kill lots of dots and take the lots by fighting in the brisk, not for them but for some other dots not incurring the same levels of risk. There dots do scorn, the dots do mourn, the dots do cry and the dots of pains come down the eyes of dots like silent rains, and they never dry. The dots shoot the shots of the fiery fury dots; the dots drop the dots of bombs on the dot-full spots. The dots kill some dots and sale some dots to live on them, the dots dot some other dots to change the lots by dotting name. The dots eat, smoke, the dots do drink. Some dots dot-play in dots to stretch up to the dots who in themselves sometimes shrink.
“A natura discedimus; populo nos damus, nullius rei bono auctori.”
- Seneca, Epist., 99
[We depart from nature and give ourselves to the people, who understand not.]
The ways sway not, neither blink. The dots write up rarely the exact dots of thoughts they think. The dots think in thoughts of the lots and sink in. Dots sink in the dots of thoughts they think in. The dots pass through the mundane-night in search of the light. A dot of light to spark the way for the lots of the dots out of dark! The dots dive in the thoughts of dots and bring the lights. The dots of lights help righteous dots to win the fights amongst the dots of wrongs and the dots of rights. The dots teach to the dots that try to learn some of the dots that the dots could ever earn. The dots judge the dots that are dotted with crimes. Dots indulge the dots that could break through the doors of chimes. The dots take from the dots some dot-full rhymes. Dots’ wrathful paths sometimes dot the moths for the maths of getting into the doors of time. The dots plan for the either-or, the dots speak and smile to the dots of nearer rank and file. The dots write the rights and/or the rites, the dots fight for and with the wrongs and rights. Dots listen to the dots that play and sing. Dots guide the dots of lots to make something. Sometimes dots paint a saint, sometimes the dots bring a king. Dots make the bell for lots of dots and some dots do ring. Dots remind dots to mind the ways that they behave. Dots ask the dots to return the thing that someone gave. Dots preys on the dots, dots get preyed. Dots say they pray to the one who have made. Dots sow dots in the lots for some dots to grow. Dots grow up in the dots to make the dots of a timely flow. Dots dot the seeds of the creeds of the finest dots that come to be the dots of the lots that the dots never see. Dots know not but grow up and, like ever, flow. The dots say to the dots, “See! It’s me saying that I’ve to go.” He walks through the way.
Mollis opus.” – Horace, Epod.,xii.15
[Fit, but for once only.]
There all the ways find their ways though sometimes they may sway for long for a timely song to show the way that may never say, “See my love, love forgets not the love to love, but I’ve to go anyway.” “Never go! Never go! O, my love! Never leave the way we live and I insist to live, O, my dove! How you’re gonna leave me in this darkness! Don’t you see around me the mundane sea that waves so high! How may I, say, how may I live this life’s speedy flow without you? Can the sun ever bring it’s glow without the finest morning dew!”. Thinks his mind but he cannot mind to say such as due to the life’s coarse chime by this time both they have been far for a long long a way from the life’s loveful time.
She on the way back, makes her silent-pray, back the way, knows not she where she is going to go, knows not she where all the ways do go. She crosses the way as she too should flow, in the flow of the public streams, where in the pains of the broken dreams, her mind screams- “Leave not! Leave not! Live! O, my love! Believe! I love you even now, and believe. Like the plants creeping around the stronger tree, I can’t live without you to free my love, don’t you see? Or like the silent monsoon rains of the gains that the clouds bear in we too are the rains bound by chains of the love. Don’t you feel the pain that gains from you your loveful dove? Feel and see the southern breeze on the mountain ridge waves the silky emerald-crease all the way. Like way, pave the way of the love, O! My love, that never sway. O! My love! O! Loveless dove! How you bade good bye to your spotless love! Love that shines like the stars in the heavens’ timeless skies, how may I bear with the memories of that love without sighs! Could the first man on this earth ever leave his beloved with alike pains! O! The chains of pains to bear with mundane-brains………….”
“Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.” Horace, De Art. Poet., 467
[Compelling a man to live a life against his will, is as cruel as to kill him.]
“……….The life all the way! The gains of chains of the pains to have but never to say. O! My love! Don’t you see my love is like the silent rains that chain the gains, again gain the chains but never pains! O my dove! Let’s make our love a love like love to live, a love that live and love each bits of love, and for none to leave. Don’t you see the rays of sun on the river bed for ever shine! O! My love! Just like that, shine the love within you and mine. Don’t you too feel the song of love that the minds forever sing! O! My love! I do love you like ever and like anything. O! My dove! It’s our love that I beg from you to kindly give! Leave me not! Nor my love! Please do not leave! It’s our love! O! My dove! It’s our love that I do love and believe to live. Do not leave my dove! Do not leave! Let us live to love and believe! To believe, love and live. And not to leave.”
Now, high in the sky, the evening stars sigh. And the humid southern breeze, in her pains, drops down soundless as the spring rains. Southern breeze on her lips and chicks, southern breeze breezes on her eyelids. Southern breeze bridges the charming memories of her love that right now, with a sequence-forced “Good bye”, skids as if with all the mundane-speeds. The reds of a mundane-dusk bade not a “Good bye” to her and wait for long. The glows that flow from the evening clouds sing to her a far away mundane-song. All way long she drifts into the shifts of thrifts of a crowd that never lift them over the ‘must’-s to do. She looks into high in the eastern sky where the azurite blue grew into a mournful cobalt’s hue. She threw her mind, the love-blind, to the south where the clouds grew so high.
Does he know where to go with the burden of an endless sigh? Could he fly in the sky where the life is lifted high? Sky that makes the oval round.
“Vidi ego nuper equuam, contra sua frena tenacem,
Ore reluctanti fulminis ire modo:” – Ovid, Amor.,iii. 4, 13
[I saw, the other day, a horse struggling against his bit, and rushing like a thunderbolt.]
Like a love, free for ever and yet unbound. And who ever found a love that truly reigns over the mundane pains! Like these silent monsoon spring-rains, could love be lived ever without chains! Chains of gains of loveful times, a time full of the best mundane chimes! “Could love be found unbound like the love of sky with the sea? Could love be just like that as you taught about the love to me? O! My love! Even if not you and me, it’s our love that shall forever be loving you. O! My dove! My beloved love in me that I love till now loves you to love, and it’s you, the only you. See my love! It’s my love, to and for you, that compels me now to leave. Live alive a lively life, O! My dove! Live a life that any someone may live. Love brings near two minds from far and reforms them both to newer forms. The loves are pained for the forms they gained from the forms around and from the norms. Forms and norms bind up all norms of forms to cause storms. It’s not you, neither me, rather it’s the social norms and forms that has barred and broken our love’s lovely norms and forms. I beg your pardon, O! My love! Do forgive! It’s out of love that I have to leave. Believe, it is the fairest way in this time-spaces pace of race that I can trace to be better for you and me.” Thought he, “Think of the pearls that are formed due to pains but forms the shells’ highest gains and carries the chains of the shells’ sores’ pains! O! The shells! Pearls – the highest gains out of pains that are left for the shells to bear within but not to tell. Carries in the gain of pain – O! The shell! But never tells. Just think of a love like that, O! My dove! Think of love like these spring rains – the gains of the spring clouds that now drop down in their pains. Or, ask the dusk for its fading rays, ask the sparkling evening star about the love………..”
“Tanquam thura merumque parent ……….
Abstentem, marmoreumve putes:” – Martial, xi.,103, 12
[As if they were performing some sacrifice……..
You would think them absent or marble.]
“………….And listen what sky-pearl says. These are like the loves where sometimes the best way to love is to love only through distant gaze. Here love is the love of parallel ways that love both but never becomes one to live or leave. Love is the only thing that we never leave and that we believe to live. Love is the love for something that we never leave. We may even leave each other, but not the love! Love is loveful for ever O! My Dove! With you ever shall be my loveful love. Real love can be even like the loveful sea and lover sky – the sea loves the sky but cannot fly up so high. Love is like their bluest song, the song of love that is sung for long. These songs are loveful as they are lived to sing to and from the far. Love is like the blues of sky and of sea. Love is the spectrum of life and soul that we may see. Sky and sea loves their highest loves though never they are one but two, but their lovely love plays for ever with millions forms of blue to bring the billions of touches and swatches of blue. Know not you that love is the pearl of a pain-bound shell! Love is the sky’s and the sea’s bluest tale. Sometimes love are the ways that never meet, but from away they make for the other the loveliest greet. That is love, O! My dove! For you remains for ever my thirstful love. Think of love like that of a shell carrying within the gains of pains, O! The shell! But never tell. Don’t you see in the love of the sky and sea that love is for some to relieve, leave, live, love and to believe to relive! Love is rarely the way that is only to live, rather it’s the way to believe, relieve and to relive. O! My dove! For you remains my endless love. Me too, know you, love the loves that makes the doves together forever to live. But it’s the love for you and our love that compels me now to leave………….”
“Exsilioque domos et dulcia limina mutant……” – Virgil, Georg., ii. 51
[And quit for exile their homes and pleasant abodes ………]
“……………Chain not you in the pains, O! My love! Look in this spring rains of clouds’ loveful gains. Break the chains of pains O! My love! and bring out of you the silent rains of loveful mundane gains. When like the rainbow shining after the sunrise-rains if any when arises in you our love that you may bear in like the tale, think of the love that is loved by sea and sky or by a shell. But never tell the tale O! My lovely dove, never tell! Carry within you the painful gain of a gainful pain, O! The shell! Never tell any body that mundane tale.” Thought he, “O! My love! It’s not the me you see, it’s our love that shall forever be loving you. My beloved dove! O! My love, it’s the love in me that till now loves only you to love, and it’s you, solely the lovely you. See my love! It’s my love, for and to you, that will inspire me even now to live. Live alive a lively life, O! My dove! Live a life that many a one could not live. Love brought near and dear our minds from far and reformed us both to newer forms. The love, now may be pained from the forms that chained through the forms around to deform the love-norms. Chaining forms and paining norms may try to deform all love-norms but only to be the cause of mundane-storms. It’s not you, neither me, rather it’s social norms and forms to deform, and that has barred and broken our love’s lovely norms and forms. It’s the forces to deform that are trying to break love’s eternal knot. But apply your thoughts and now or then every when try to find your ought and not. Even then, please pardon, O! My love! Do forgive! It’s out of love that I had to leave. Believe, it was the fairest way in that time-spaces race and pace that I could trace to be better for you and me.” Thought he.
“Believe it’s the time to live, not to leave!” thought s/he. Though s/he couldn’t see the tearful fears that steamed to the eyes.
“Fit etiam saepe specie quadam, saepe vocum gravitae et cantibus,
Ut pellantur animivehementius: Saepe etiam cura et timore.”
- Cicero, De Devin. i, 37
[For it often falls out that minds are more vehemently struck by some sight, by the loud sound of the voice, or by singing, and of times by grief and fear.]
The sighs in the love-nest, s/he could taste, so s/he hasted to say and then s/he was found to say that s/he never wanted to say. “Nay!” s/he blinked and thought not to look to the eyes, the skies, wherein, even now dark clouds sigh. S/he tried. S/he tried and lied – “Believe! It’s the time to leave! So, you know, I’ve to go.” S/he has to go, as s/he goes. S/he went and goes. Like ever flow the clouds and the crowds grow high. The clouds too go, the clouds too have to go. The clouds like ever flow, fast and slow, in the crowds high and low. The crowds do flow. High in the sky the clouds fly. The clouds may fly like May-fly or hay in the mundane eyes that may cry for a love of a dove of a love that sighs but shies to cry. The dove that had to leave the love but could not fly, couldn’t fly due to the stoned-wings as the mind screamed in ‘life’s bad-dreams. In the bad-dreams as if s/he screamed as s/he had to go, though s/he knew not where s/he was going to go. “Believe! It’s the time to live! Not to leave!” thought s/he. But s/he could see the fearful tears that speared through the mind. S/he looked behind in the minds, and s/he found love and love only – only love – like a dove, bathing in the sunrays of sunrise-rains of the mundane days. Then s/he prayed to the God and wished that s/he said – “Never shall we leave the other. Rather, together shall relieve and live each other, we shall love, O! My dove, we shall love all the ways. Believe! I did not mean to say ‘leave’ rather I said that, it’s the time to live.” But like the unseen crudest lot, s/he says not as s/he thought. S/he says in such other way that s/he found him never so. “See! It’s me saying that I have to go.”
Then s/he went. S/he went in the flows that people make to partake. The city crowds that shake all the times and paves the waves of a moving lake.
“Et velut immissi diversis partibus ignes
Arentem in silvam, et virgulta sonantia lauro:
Aut ubi decursu rapido de montibus altis
Dant sonitum spumosi amnes, et in aequora curunt,
Quisque suum populatus iter: ” – Virgil, Ænid, xii. 521
[And as fires applied in several parts to a dry grove of crackling laurels; or as with impetuous fall from the steep mountains, torrents power down to the ocean, each bearing all down before them.]
S/he too took a part in that lake – the dots therein in the time yet to make, lakes that shake all the times all through the way to make the way. The dots reach the dots through the ways that may sway. Or may be things differ far in the other way – the ways always are but fine, and on and in the line, may be that, not the ways but the dots sway. The dots bring in and dots take far the dots from time-spaces where they are. The dots love dots and bots and they may hate. Some dots bring in and some dots do get. Some dots got the lots and some sum of freight of fate. Some dots bait, net and get the knots where dots often met. Some dots spot dots where the dots made the Net. Some dots ruin some other dots win. Some dots win and leave the spots so that some other dots can win. Some dots win themselves and let others too win.
Both of them, passes through the ‘life’ that they have to live, the life that once blessed them with the Eternal Knots of a lovely mundane love. The life they lived, ‘life’ they will and till now believe to live, believe, that very life compelled them to a loveful leave. It’s a mundane tale that s/he sees in these seas of life and learns of the lots of dots of spots of love-knots of different forms of dots of different skies and seas. It’s a love-tale that s/he may tell only for those who love the love to relieve, believe and live to relive. It’s a very mundane tale that s/he knows and sows to grow and flow near and far everywhere, now and then every when. Believers! Believe! And try to get into dots where the love-knots often met. And try to spot and change the lots of the dots that net for blotting the love-dots. Bate over the deformation-forces of fake ‘fates’. And that too may be a way to gain the grace of real fate and to open peace-gates of love to live, relieve, and to believe to relive.
Conch shell ! now tell the Tale that never fell, tell the tale of the emerald tiles of the House that can be seen from millions and more miles. Conch shell ! tell the tale, but only to the holiests of the wises of the sets and rises and only to the holiests of the braves of the waves and the caves. Only to these holiests tell about the tales that the emerald tiles engrave in them in the frames of the leaves enchanting the Creator’s Holiest Names, here and there everywhere, now and then everywhen, there, the mains and lanes all take birth from endless plainness in spite of the painless plain less plains. Conch shell ! Tell the tale that is not yet told but is to be told, tell the tales of myrtle tiles millions-fold. Tell the tales of the never bending curves of curves, tell the tale that tells the tales of the never ending tiny herbs, tell the tale of the never and ever mending verbs of herbs. Conch shell ! Tell the tale of the tiny shiny curves of herbs of verbs. Tell the Tale that took birth and shall always take birth near and far anywhere in many forms to give the norms of the forms to the forms thriving for just extensions to trace the race phase by phase to face face to face the decaying forces of unjust deformations or destructions. Conch shell ! tell the tale that many know and grow but dare not to tell, tell the tales of the leaves and believes in that endless tiny Emerald House that can make its way to the rightmost way where the souls of goals all come to partake their parts of the sciences and arts that bridged the breezes to breed the holiest learning-sprees to live and let live and to believe in the life to live, relieve, leave and relive.
Conch shell ! tell the Tale that never fell to tell the tale that tells of the tiny shiny Emerald House with no children or spouse, tell the tales engraved in the leaf-like tiles that can be read even from millions or more miles.
[Conch shell ! It’s the time, so, after enchanting the Creator’s Holiest Names, tell the tales that the myrtle tiles of millions fold, of that tiny endless emerald household, enchant in their engraves but only for the holiests of the wises and braves. Tell the tale to these holiests but tell without sounds, as the sounds too are grounded in the bounds of bounds.]
“Quis vetat apposito lumen de lumine sumi ?
Dent licet assidue, nil tamen inde perit;”
- Ovid, De Art., Amandi, iii . 93
[Who says one light should not be lighted from another light ?
Let them give over so much, as much ever remains to lose.]
Starry Night, Starry Night, take a flight into bright sights wherefrom grows the lights of seeds to breed the highest creeds of the times. The timeless time that seldom throws mundane chimes. Starry Night, Starry Night, it’s no dark. It’s the womb of the wombs of the lights that wait to spark through lovely nights that all love in all the ways. It’s they you and me, who may see the sunlit days, not the rays. In the cosmic ways darkness grows all the ways like always. As you too may feel the same though may not say. Starry Night, Starry Night, tell me and all please the cosmic tale of cosmic rays traveling through the nearest and furthest ways, tell the tale but do not say the things that you should not tell. So never tell to all the tale of the birth of the rare-most stars or the tales that tell about the birth of the first drop of water or the first monad of the flame. Never tell to all about the first star-dust or from where it came. Were they born near ? Or, were they born in the furthest far ? Though you may only tell some of the cosmic tales that others too may or can tell, but never tell the cosmic tale that never fell on the earth till now or in the past as well.
Starry Night, Starry Night, on the land you may tell the cosmic tale only to those who are by the side of the perfect-most water-flows’ silver-bands and to those who are or close to the greenest parts of the land, and to those who look up to you out of pains of the desert-sands. Starry Night, Starry Night, by the sea – sky sea to feel but until the stars rise, not to see. Don’t tell please to all wherefrom came the firsts of them, you and me. And those who, before the second set want to see the cosmic sea, you may tell them not to do the things in that way, you may tell them – “See not, see not, it’s better not to see the cosmic things in a mundane light.”
“A quo, ceu font perenni, vatum Pierris ora rigantur aquis;”
- Ovid, Amor., iii . 9, 25
[From whose never failing spring the poet drinks in Pierian waters.]
Starry Night, Starry Night, tell those who, before the second set want to see, the cosmic sea not to see, you may tell them not to do the things in that way, you may tell them – “See not, see not, it’s better not to see the cosmic things in a mundane light. Brightmost of the brightest can be seen even in the furthest star-lights. You may not need to fight the dark and its lights, rather, keep in mind that mingled together they both live like them in their kind. Think of the cosmic womb that bind the cosmic lights and the Dark without even a single spark to bind, just keep in mind that darks and lights are but only distinctive forms following their distinctive norms. But what to see, and you too must see, is if that form is for or before you. So, it’s the slightness of the minds to judge anything only basing on the kinds. Theme-less minds, bathing in the darkened nights brought, to light and to the sights of the sites, the thoughts that are highest bright.” Starry Night, Starry Night, sinking in the brightest sights of the farthest sites’ light the night drinking in sinking links shrinking in the blinking stars. Starry Verses linking the clean-king with the farthests to be relieved of the curses. Near and far all to nurse the mindful lights, as they have got the might to light the sights of rights to stop fights in the sites. Right or wrong, all sing the song of life as it may be seen to flow in the slow tales of the finest and furthest sky’s darken nights. Nights that bring the lights here to the earth to make the ways better than what they are and to make the days further bright. Dark and light, the days are bright with the lights and rays of love in what the thoughts of dots partake and say all the ways and always. All, through the ways, to sing the rays the loveful song – “So long you care for others too, what you do goes not wrong.” The nights too seldom light up the nights’ flights up in the far.
“Quae est ista laus quae laus quae possit e macello peti ?”
- Cicero, De Finib., ii, 15
[What praise is that which is to be got in the market place ?]
The nights too seldom light up the nights’ flights up in the far. The nights bright up, the sights light up from where they are. The nearmost far and the furthest and rearmost near, all do share the burnless flames of the unknown names whom to care and those who care. Mundane layer of a sublime sayer who ever prays for eternal bless on the beings and things in the finest ways and cares not for the wrath or praise, nor in others’ ways, for what s/he says – “Guess not forth and gaze not back, praises are only for the Creator Who blessed us with the thoughtful sights in the nights and with the brightest lights in workful rays, ways and days.”
Starry Nights, O ! Starry Nights, bright up the lights with the flights of sights. Starry Night, O ! Starry Night, bright up the dark with the light of sights. That is your might and that you know too that it is the task that the Holiest One entrusted you too to do. You too can help us see above the life on the lands or in the sea. The sea we see and that we see not in the furthest time, you are there to bring in their mundane-chimes of the silent hymns and the silent psalms of the calmness of the sum-less some of the parentless child who grew not wild, rather was relentlessly Truthful and heavenly mild. The dad-less kid with fad-less speed skidded up to the highest bid and brought the gains to bear with pains and showered the earth with endless rains of heavenly gains. And the holiest prince who left all for the either-or of the neither-nor of mundane rise and fall. And the collective-child who with the timely endless chimes waved up to give a lift to his own time. Many a one in any or none, many-any-none in all but One who could do the things to be done sings the very same mundane-song – “So long you care for others too, what you do goes not wrong. So guess not forth and gaze not back, let not you break, sway or crack. Let them do what they do, and do yourself what should you. Pray to none but the Praiseful One who blessed us in all the ways with the thoughtful sights to see the differences between the wrongs and rights in the days and nights, and with the brightest lights of rights and sights of darks and lights full of mights of in-borne rays in the workful nights and days to be worked in, on and with millions ways.”
Starry Night, O ! Starry Night, bright up the light with the flights of sights. Starry Night, O ! Starry Night, light up bright the sights of the darks by sparks of lights bringing in the sights of wrongs and rights. Starry Night, O ! Starry Night, light up the darkened mundane caves and pave the waves of sights of lights to pave the ways that never sway to lead the proper-most ways for the holiest of the holist wises and braves.
“Habitam quemdam vitalem corporis esse,
Harmonium Graeci quam dicunt …” – Lucretius, iii, 100
[A certain vital habit which the Greeks call a harmony.]
I’ll come, as I am, and as I did breed the seed of the creed of the mores. I’ll come, as I was and as I am in the doors that you may or may not see ashore or off the shore of the life-deep sea. See and dive the five seas of lives if you may see in yourselves of shelves amongst the few you for ever knew, see, one is me. You and me and the boundless sea that you see in you tell the tale that tells it’s tales but only to a very few. The breaths you take and the loves you make – you partake me to dive the Five-seas of lives forever to see the sea you see in you and me in the loves to live and relieve to see the see beyond and in you, them and me – the sea that forever lives. Better to leave the leaves of the beliefs that relieve none to live or to re-live, but live beliefs that relieve all the leaves that live to live and let others live and to leave relieves for all who believe in beliefs that relieve all to live and to re-live. The smile you pay in a lively way to life’s loveful song, goes not wrong as all way long life in itself is a song all along. The song you bring through your time-ring yet to find, the goals of a kind of golden-blind rays of ways, is the song that you sing in your mind for me or someone else to find, the loves you make or take, the breaths you take or the breads you may make, you partake me too in to let me in within the twin drives of the dives of the Fives that you carry within, the way you sink as you think to drink from the sea of love in a blink of eye, the things you bring when you sink to think in the seas where live the ‘I’, eyes that are near and far, out and in – to see the ‘I’ to dive down high in the unseen scenes, that are never seen in the scenes of sins caused by the mars, we altogether make the ways that pays the rays to relieve the leaves of beliefs to live-relieve and to re-live through the sublime-lake where we all, in due courses of life-forces, have to partake. Sing not the song that goes along the wrongs mar-made, but bring in the songs that wash-off the wrongs made by errors of the little mermaid. The way she did and wrongly believed to sing in a wrong place the sweetest songs. All songs are sung to none but the one of the few to do the due to care for the others too. So what she sang in those songs are not wrongs but merely her way of love to love – “ O! my love, love not me but love the seas of love in you and me. Love my love! As you have to love the love in me, ‘the loving me’, love the love to renew the love that lives in you and in a very few. O! my love, love thy love and love the love that you may or may not feel, hear or see. And that’s my love, O! my love, can’t you feel that love, can’t you see ? ”
Sanctius est ac reverentius de actis deorum credere quam scire.
It is more holy and reverend to believe the works of God, than to know them.
- Tacitus, De Mor. Germ., xxxiv.
Generations of gene-ration of a nation of degradations of gradations and gradations of degradations of the passions that cause no pains of fashions of the chains and pains but caused hindrance in the fiesta-trance of the slave-lords who preyed out of those who may be found near around to locate and bait by the sounds that would have found the bounds and grounds to sow the seeds of hatred or greed to mislead the hidden force of the mores of doors and of the mores to the cores to the minds of freemen who everywhen and everywhere every now and then tried to free them and all from the bounds of the matters grounds and who loved to live free from the bounds of groundless grounds forced by the surround-sounds and by the rounds for punishing grounds that needs no trial- “So, forget and care not the nods and put all the odds to weak them down. Target one by one and employ all without or with the robe, cloak or gown.” So, the nascents of the decents and their descents with all their dissents were nipped in the bud in the muds of sighs and shies and cries. But that’s not the end as the horizon may seem to bend though it really never bends nor it ends.
Qui certis quibusdam destinatisque sententis addicti et consecrati sunt, ut etiam, quæ non probant, cogantur defendre.
Who are so tied and obliged to certain beliefs, that they are bound to defend even those they do not approve. - Cicero, Tusc., Quaes., ii.2
The soundy crowd, so proud and loud to shroud the thoughts of thoughts in the spots where lots of lots are slaughtered by the rots trying by plots of slots to blot the shiny dots on the axis of the praxis’s tile wheels not for thrill but to feel the reels of life on the life’s endless sea that few may see and a few may feel until it’s the time to work the chimes of that rhyme that only some could sum and tell in the tranquil way of race to pace the phase in an enthalpic form in spite of the entropic norms to deform the forms that play around in the bounds and rounds and abound in the farthest spaces the nouns of which yet to be found by the norms of thoughts tied in and with the forms that reforms or deforms themselves generally without even knowing it and split the knit of knots of eternal tie that you feel, s/he feels and so feel also I, though we may or may not know how to grow the hidden seed of the creed in a tranquil way through the paces of races that race to pace the phases to grow and flow in an enthalpic form in spite of the entropic paces and norms to deform the forms in all the forms, shapes, norms and even in the thoughts and spots to change the lots of the lots of dots of the beings though in the rings all are one but none someone to breed, feed and to lead the seeds of the creeds in the rightmost way that never sway though may give the ways in the nights and days to the darks and rays on the ways to grow and flow near and far, now and then, everywhen and everywhere to do and to feel the reels of life in the life’s endless sea that few may see and a few may feel its time in time and may do or tell that tranquil tale.
Neque gratia neque ira teneri potest: Quod quae talia essent, imbecilla essent omnia. Cicero, De Nat., i. 17
He can be affected neither with favour nor indignation, because both these are effects of fragility.
Smile and shine, O! mingled mind of mine, though frost-bites on your face shall bear in the marks of an ice-age or the memoirs of someone kept in cage for claiming wage but not the ‘competence’ to earn a pittance that placate the fates of the takers who can not make the things into beings but can shake or break and so they take from the wages through the ages to turn the wages into pittances that is earned by dense and hard labours through the days and through the nights by human-lights who enlight the nights and days in millions ways through the works and thoughts all over the spots and claim sometimes only a fair wage to renew the nights and days. The human-lights that rarely fight or rise in rage for their wage but bear in to the extent a human could do without shelter, care or food. Thus the human-lights are decayed in decades of their sights and the dark-shark swallows them day by day in thousands ways in the names of rites and fights that were never fought by the ‘prisoners of war’ near or far though they are being gripped, sold and resold as prisoners of war. This is but only one of the ways of ‘life’ the takers are punishing all to – is this new to me or to s/he or you ?
Smile and shine, O! pilloried mind of mine though frost bites on your face pace the trace of the coming ice-age or reminds someone’s face who was kept in cage for claiming due works and due wage.
There Lies a World Hidden, # Mysterious, unknown, and forbidden. # Where dwells entities with technologies beyond our comprehension, # And knowledge kept hidden from us, in this other dimension. # Will the truth ever be revealed? Earthly forces of power and greed want forever sealed, # Forbidden knowledge for warfare to wield. # When humankind understands,